Archive for September, 1993

How Angels Fly

Posted: September 27, 1993 in Poetry
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angels never think that they are flying
when they really are –
but they know and wonder
when they look how far they’ve come –
they know that they’ve been trying –
they did, and have been,
because they have believed some.


Posted: September 27, 1993 in Poetry

I write poems to think things through;
I write poems to communicate to you.
why do you write poems?
I am as simple as this.
there isn’t anything that you’d really miss
unless you didn’t read them.

What Happens Now?

Posted: September 27, 1993 in Poetry
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when the nighttime
slips across the sky
like a teenage lover
out his window to put flowers
on his first girlfriend’s car,
I’m usually surprised,
even though it was I
who used to climb cautiously
out of my house
and bicycle through quiet orange-lit streets,
picking homeowner’s flowers along the way
to makeshift a heartfelt and beautiful bouquet –
an echo like a car going by
three streets over
in the middle of the night.

why can’t I
just be another guy?
but I’m a person
with a snake-sharp tongue
and I’m a ripped flannel…
I shoot my mouth like a shotgun.
riddles and rhyming and rhythm,
not taken seriously enough to stay honest
just another number in the GTE phone list.
I lie and I lie and I lie
to convince you all
that the poet is just another human being;
that I am just another guy.

I thresh through these lines
like a dog wrapped in seaweed,
thrown with stones in the ocean:
I can’t breathe –
there’s all the smoke from the fires I’m lightning,
I’m telling the sheriff that I’m struck by lightning.
when does it all stop echoing ‘round in circles?
I think it’s just another dream.
I’m on a porch with a candle and a carpet;
there’s crickets all around
and I feel wonderful without the world dragging me down.
look, I see you don’t understand with a frown.

I can’t even repeat what I’ve said.
I can’t think of a poem I’ve written,
then read,
and thought that this is it, this is perfect!
I’ve even given up trying to rework it.
I don’t want to write for a living anymore
I feel like the homework that’s always lost to the dog
and I don’t remember whatever
I expected from myself anymore.
these fireworks of joy that I wished to paint the skies with
are nothing more than explosions
of white-winged moths from a log
that I’ve kicked walking alone in the woods.

Kmart Funk

Posted: September 10, 1993 in Poetry
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I kick the lyrics straight from my heart to my mouth
to the mike to your ears to your drums and I’m out,
out fast like a villiain that just stole your TV.
after the show, if it’s gone, don’t blame me,
because when I rap, people don’t know waht hit ‘em.
there’s scientists wondering why I got rhythm.
I get in the scraps that you wouldn’t believe
with the belligerent dicks who’re proud of their weave.
they’re bigger and better than the guy with the eye-wear.
you’re girl’s loving me, you know why? I got real hair.
you’ll try to act tough and make your hands into fists
but she wants to get busy and she’s blowing a kiss.
by that time I know you’ve had it…
but I’m a lover, not a fighter, so I don’t start static.
I’m a gentleman, I’ll come and apologize
and I’ll try to keep my eyes off those out-of-line thighs.
she’s pulling up her skirt just to try and impress me.
she looks me up and down like she’s trying to undress me.
you’re gonna be mad when you know that you’ve lost it,
so play Michael Jackson – keep that shit in the closet.
the freaks in the streets want to go and get loaded;
I’m so fat with good time rhymes that I’m bloated.
I don’t have the patience to deal with a chump
because I got to get busy to the Kmart funk.

it’s the Kmart funk I said the Kmart funk
chech it the Kmart funk yes the Kmart funk
well its the Kmart funk yeah the Kmart funk –
catch a likkle riddim in your cranium, punk!

yes the Kmart funk to the Kmart funk
check it the Kmart funk it’s the Kmart funk
the Kmart funk into the Kmart funk
it’s soundin’ even better when I smoke a da skunk, BO !!!!

TheKmart funk was this jam that I grooved
in my band Monster Zero way back in high school.
My man Chris McGee goes to UC Berkeley
he had lyrics so funky that they’d hurt me…
something real weird ‘bout some shoes and a sock
I don’t know what he would say but the house would cold rock
and the crowd would shout, they’d be happy to be there
singing [ho!] – Terminator X
but back to the definition of the Kmart funk
as I driveby dropkick with the bass in my trunk.
this is a track that’s down to earth, see,
not a highbrow store like Nordstrom’s or Macy’s.
the Kmart funk’s back to the basics style
that keeps me worthwhile, out of the crazy dogpile
of pop-rap fusion that entices the kids
to think rap is cheesy like a jar of Cheese Whiz™.
I try to stay clear of that hellhole…
you can tell I gots the Motts™ not a blue light special
ideas are rocking right out of my ears:
get on the floor and have no fear.
Tempest’s like a fortune on the wheels of steel
he drops the Gap band in to give the flavor-full feel,
a little Roger, Peter Piper, and some underground bump
mixes up in your ears for the Kmart funk.


some people get surprised when I turn on the faucet
I pour out a jam that’s a slam not a soft hit
and I’m never quite finished, always more to come
because the people in the place always step up and get dumb.
I gotta stay back, I’m like Felix the Cat:
I got a bag full of tricks and a four-track…
to kick something fresh you gotta feel the jam
like the words flowing out from the mike in my hand
I’m not starting some shit, but don’t step to me,
‘cause I can play you like a game of Monopoly™.
you say that you’re the best and you can do much better
but explain why your mom’s writing me love letters.
I didn’t mean to be rude and dis your face out loud,
but there she is doing the wop in the hole in the crowd.
just stand back and swim through the funk, G.
[feel the bass come down on me, yeah] – Jungle Brothers

you’re probably gonna chuckle, ‘cause I’m talking ‘bout Kmart
but personal style can’t be bought, it’s an art form.
I think that the K is a great place to be;
there’s one on the corner in every great city.
that’s where I go to buy cheap underwear,
but don’t get me wrong – I don’t fucking work there.
Kmart is sort of like a circus tent…
you see I walk out with everything and I ain’t spent a cent.
I’m a low-grade gangster so I gotta give thanks
that I haven’t been caught or shot – there’s no banks
in the future of my criminal career…
maybe a ticket or two for playing this so you can hear it
whilyou’re partying on DP, cruising on the freeway,
staggering on State Street, ditching school on Friday,
hanging out drinking with your friends in the place.
now where you gonna get that eight dollar case?
Blatz is on sale, Milwaukee’s best, too;
all the best brands, get your hands on that quality brew.
they’ve got everything else in that goddamn store –
I wouldn’t be surprised if the manager’s drinking.
you gotta be tanked to be 25 and working
at the Kmart – it’s not a job, it’s lurking.
I bought a Venus flytrap in the Garden Department,
the biggest excitement was a kid trying to start shit.
he ripped off a pack of Bubble Yum™…
caught by security, they pulled out their guns.
nobody in the store seemed to pay much attention,
they were picking up the specials that I’ve already mentioned.
you still think that Kmart’s a waste of good room?
where else do you get your water balloons.
throw ‘em at a neighbor, throw ‘em at a cop.
(be caution on that last one, it’s no fun if you’re shot)
and if you live like me, by the university,
it’s always lots of fun to water bomb a sorority.
and wait ‘till the freshmen come to college…
then it’s time to kick them their knowledge…
water bomb launcher so the suckers’ll soar,
there’s a whole group of targets for your water balloon war.
now Wednesday night’ll never ever be a bore,
but you’ve got to give thanks to the neighborhood store.


I write rhymes…that’s what I do…and
[you don’t like how I’m living, well fuck you] – Ice Cube
I write stories ‘bout my life so you can get a taste
and like a spoonful of sugar, I frost it with bass.
it’s all in good fun to make you sing and dance,
this groove so soothes it makes you move your pants.
light a spliff take a whiff and pass that green;
get friendly with your neighbor ‘cause they got a lot of flavor don’t worry be happy like it’s IV Halloween.
I get busy getting dizzy…
I chill out at the Chart House™, yo fellows, Cheeze Whiz™ me.
hey ladies in the place, Cory White – he’s gonna kiss them,
checkered ska punks with the junk in our system.
I’m powered by the light that shines from my soul.
I got more freshness than your kitchen’s got mold.
straight from the bottle and I don’t give a damn
if it comes in a cup, 40 ounce or can.
I play this like an anthem from the back of my truck,
I play my rhymes loud and I don’t give a (bo!)
you think that I’m bluffing? you think that I’m bluffing?
you’re a day-old in the dumpster ‘cause I’m the stud-muffin.
any bitches talking shit about me and my crew?
pah! you gotta pay your man to stay with you.
I’ve covered all the bases and you know I got spunk;
you know you can’t touch it – it’s the Kmart funk.


I Want So Much to Believe

Posted: September 9, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

I want so much to believe
in love that can be touched
and felt: something I need
to glue together all my heart.
each time I fall into that trap,
the sweetened chute of love,
some part of me can hear the snap
of metal jaws that slowly close and lock.
each time I fail another relationship,
a chisel chips another piece of meat,
a child steals another boardgame piece,
another chance for happiness thrown out
my throne of belief is whittled away,
the arms and legs are all but kindling now
and who would want such damaged merchandise
but in a lonely corner of an attic in your house.

The Lift

Posted: September 4, 1993 in Poetry

I wait with the irrational fears.
I’m packed in the same elevator as them,
standing shoulder to shoulder;
they’re all in business suits and
they look almost friendly.
but it is just because they recognize me
from my frequency in riding the lift.
my relationship to them is this:
we see each other on the elevator,
which can take a long time
to decide which floor it is going to
let me out on.

An Ill-Made Candle

Posted: September 4, 1993 in Poetry
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you almost caught your room on fire
with an ill-made candle;
but forever with me is
the image I have when you explained
that you rushed it outside
burning your hands
naked and dripping from the bath
and dashed it to the ground.
all I came by to see
was a broken ceramic plate
and an enormous water stain
on the walkway,
and you, with a burnt thumb.